


oh will I ever learn

by xephyr



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rope Bondage, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23977282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xephyr/pseuds/xephyr
Summary: this is just my collection of prompt fills for fairshaw week. some of it will be smut but not all of it. each fill is in its own self-contained universe.
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Comments: 33
Kudos: 71
Collections: Fairshaw Week 2020





	1. Ropes (E)

**Author's Note:**

> as a heads up most (all) of these are not very polished so... sorry about that

Flynn’s shoulders begin to ache from the position they’ve been forced to hold, his wrists bound together above his head with strong rope that hangs from the ceiling. A bead of sweat gathers along his brow and drips down into the silk blindfold that he had somehow agreed to wearing for this encounter and he thinks, distantly, that this may not have been his wisest decision. He’s only been alone for probably five minutes at most but the lump of apprehension lodged firmly in his throat acts as if he’s been here for hours. He swallows it down with effort and for a fleeting second he considers shouting out to call the whole thing off.

A door in the distance opens and closes quietly and Flynn’s heart thunders against his ribcage. There’s a hum of approval followed by light footsteps towards him and then a wiry moustache grazes along his cheek, stopping at his temple. “Good?” Shaw asks gravelly, his breath hot on the shell of his ear as he cups Flynn’s cock through his breeches. 

The apprehension leaves him in an instant, leaving him shuddering both from relief and from the torturously feather light grip Shaw has on his most prized piece of anatomy. “Uh-huh,” He says as eloquently as he can. It’s a good enough response, it seems, and he doesn’t question him further. Without his vision he can’t predict where Shaw’s hands will go next and Shaw fully uses this to his advantage, pulling breathy gasps and sighs from him with every unexpected touch. Unhurried fingers trail over his gut and along his flanks and then up his chest, tweaking a nipple with one hand as he frees Flynn’s aching cock from its confines with the other. 

Devastatingly, he removes his hand after that, leaving Flynn’s heavy and leaking dick to hang uselessly between his legs. He’s almost embarrassed by how worked up he is without being touched but then Shaw taps two of his fingers against Flynn’s bottom lip and he pushes the shame aside, eagerly and instinctually drawing the digits into his mouth. The taste of Shaw is intoxicating and he hollows his cheeks as he swallows them down further, coating them with copious amounts of saliva as he runs his tongue alongside and between his fingers and cataloguing the way Shaw’s breath catches in his throat for later use. 

“Good boy,” Shaw murmurs reverently and Flynn’s dick, still woefully untouched, twitches and jumps from where it juts out from his body. He doesn’t have the brain capacity to respond so he makes do with humming around his fingers instead. It makes it twice as cruel, somehow, when Shaw chooses that moment of all moments to draw away from him. Flynn whines shamelessly at the loss of contact but after a brief amount of shuffling he’s awarded instead with plush wet lips around the head of his cock that yank a sound from his chest that’s between a sob and a shout. His fingers flex uselessly against the rope holding his wrists in place, desperate to reach out and tangle his fingers in that pretty red hair and guide him along at the pace he needs. 

With his remaining senses heightened to new degrees, he can distinctly feel Shaw grinning against his shaft. “I’ve never heard you with so little to say,” He says, curling a fist over his head and smearing pre along his length. “We should try this more often.” 

Shaw draws him back into the sweltering heat of his mouth and further back into his throat and Flynn’s thighs shake, grateful now for the support of the rope that keeps him on his feet. “Uh-huh,” He says again, and it’s the last semi-coherent thing he can say for the rest of the night.


	2. Day off (G)

The 7th Legion operative throws her fist out towards his ribs and Shaw intercepts it, redirecting the momentum of her punch to counter with a blow of his own. She hisses as it connects with her undoubtedly bruised flank and stumbles backwards a half step, a sheen of sweat glistening on her skin, before regaining her bearings and advancing upon him once again.

Sparring was a good way to keep him limber and also served as a more than welcome distraction to clear his mind from the frivolities of paperwork. Back in Stormwind he had the selection of his own agents to choose from but out here in Boralus he doesn’t have the same luxuries available to him. Still, it’s a refreshing change of pace as it offers him valuable insight on the way Kul Tirans fight and while this particular operative is a good match for him, he can’t help but note that Kul Tiran spar etiquette leaves much to be desired. With a sidestep and sweep of his leg he catches her ankle and dispatches her onto her back with a soft ‘oof’. Her chest is heaving as she takes his offered hand to pull her to her feet and feeling similarly winded he procures water from his pack for them both, ascertaining that now is a good time as any for a break. 

A slow clap sounds off not too far from them and Shaw whips his head around in rapt attention to its source and bites back a weary sigh when he sees who is attached to said hands. 

“You know, most people spend their days off by actually relaxing.” 

Leaning against a pillar in exaggerated nonchalance is none other than the constant thorn in his side otherwise known as Captain Flynn Fairwind. No, perhaps that wasn’t fair. He wasn’t so much a thorn in his side than he was a nuisance that inconvenienced him in many, many different ways. Not letting himself be caught by Fairwind’s wide and fond grin he cards through the several responses he has lined up, passing by _how did you know it was my day off, who told you, how did you find me,_ and settles instead for a more direct approach. “What do you want?” 

“Nothing,” Fairwind says in that sing-song way that he does with false innocence. “It’s my day off too, as it happens.” 

Shaw raises a brow at him. “What a coincidence,” he says blandly. 

“Hey now, don’t be like that. I was just wondering, you know, since I’m here and all, if I could possibly have a go at you.” At Shaw’s very unimpressed look over his probably purposeful and poor choice of words he tacks on “Sparring, I mean.” 

Shaw wearily looks over in askance to the 7th Legion operative who, hells, has a small but knowing grin playing at her lips and she nods wordlessly at him before retreating back to the sidelines to gather her things. 

He drains the rest of the water from his bottle and rolls his shoulders, squaring them anew in preparation for the sloppy round he’s bound to have with the ex-pirate. When he next turns back towards him after wiping the sweat from his face with a towel, resigned to endure whatever tomfoolery the other man has planned for this encounter, Fairwind has apparently stripped to the waist and thrown his clothes in a haphazard pile while he had waited. It takes Shaw more effort than he cares to admit to drag his eyes away from his hairy midsection and then past his broad and even hairier chest, bypassing his nipples entirely and instead resolutely locking onto Fairwind’s mischievous gaze and scowling in turn. The captain grins at him so widely that it crinkles the corners of his eyes in fond amusement and Light, this might even be worse than staring at his chest. 

_Well,_ he thinks as he watches Fairwind bounce on the balls of his feet and situates himself into his starting stance, ignoring the unbidden tightness in his throat. _Why not_


	3. Drink (T)

When Flynn hears the first knock on his door he ignores it and drinks down another healthy mouthful of Corlain Estate. He had originally been saving it for a special occasion but when faced with difficult emotions, he figured it was enough of an emergency to break it out from his cupboard. Maybe it was a good thing that he did because it turned out it actually wasn’t as delectable as the vendor who has sold it to him had promised it would be. Casked during the pre-first war his arse. Nevertheless, he's downed over half of the bottle at this point and still feels more sober than he’d like. ‘Witless drunk’ indeed.

The weather had been dangerous lately, winds whipping carts and stands and even some of the flimsier and more modest hovels locals had dug out for themselves into torrential typhoons and as a result, it kept everyone confined and in close quarters until the tidesages got everything sorted. He didn’t realize how much he would actually miss his daily expeditions until he no longer had the option. Alliance buggery was mostly at a standstill as well aside from the odd hero now and then braving the storm like it mattered not a whit. He’d regarded all of them with careful respect at first until he figured out that the champions weren’t so much brave as they were hungry for gold and shiny armor. That, and they were all seemingly insane. 

Shaw was one of the ones waylaid by the weather and at first Flynn mistook it for a good thing. They were able to spend more time together which meant A: more fucking and B: maybe some cuddling if the Spymaster was so inclined. Surprisingly, he was. Well, he _was_. As time passed with no favorable changes in the weather, Shaw and perhaps himself were beginning to get more and more agitated at having nothing to do. Things that either didn’t bother Shaw or he had initially been quiet about were beginning to frustrate him until it evolved into a spectacular blowout yesterday morning over the type of _crust_ Flynn had bought for their pot pie, of all things. It escalated more than it really had any right to and ended with Shaw storming from his cabin in a murderous huff. In his haste he’d forgotten his belt on top of the dresser and Flynn left it there, eyeing it distastefully now and then with the hope that Shaw could somehow feel it. 

Maybe the fight wasn’t _entirely_ Shaw’s fault. Flynn had admittedly made an underhanded remark or two (perhaps three) about how repressed Shaw was and how maybe, just _maybe_ , one day he would be able to afford the monumental surgery to remove the stick from his arse. He winces at the memory but forces himself to recall what Shaw had said to him afterwards in an attempt to feel less guilty. “There’s a difference between being selective and being a horny idiot that will sleep with anything with a pulse,” Shaw had hissed at him, narrowing his eyes in a dangerous glare that would have stopped Flynn in his tracks if he hadn’t been so worked up himself. 

A second knock on his door rouses him from his recollection of yesterday’s argument. He considers ignoring this one as well but eventually sighs, placing his palms flat against his table to support himself as he stands, holding himself there as the drink rushes to his head. Alright, maybe he’s less sober than he thought. He crosses the short distance to his door with more difficulty than he had anticipated and cracks the door open the merest sliver to glare at the man in his hallway. 

“Sorry mate, I’m a little busy being a whore at the moment. Why don’t you come back later when my guests leave?” 

“Flynn,” Shaw says as Flynn tries to close the door on him, bracing a strong arm against the wood and holding it open. He fixes him with a conflicted look before darting his eyes down one of the hallways’ corridors. “I’ll confess, I was overly callous and—“ 

“And a dick?” Flynn supplies for him helpfully. 

“And a dick,” Shaw agrees, surprising him. Shaw sighs and runs a hand over his mouth, visibly steeling himself for whatever he’s about to say next before sighing with a light shake of his head. “Can I come in?” 

Flynn hums thoughtfully in mock deliberation, tipping the bottle upside down and swallowing down the remainder of its contents. Even as drunk as he is he can see Shaw’s eyes tracking the movement of the bottle but for once, he doesn’t comment on it. 

Shaw’s shoulders sag when the silence drags on for too long and he correctly comes to the conclusion that he’s not going to get an answer. “And I’m sorry.” 

The bitterness folds in on itself until Flynn can finally see past it and recognize that Shaw has put his pride aside to come back groveling to someone who realistically doesn’t deserve it. He could be mad at him for taking an entire day to apologize but Flynn hadn’t been planning on making amends at all which perhaps says a lot more about him than it does Shaw. 

Still, he _was_ a dick. 

...But it wasn't _impossible_ that Flynn was also a dick.

He scratches at his cheek stubble and decides to end the charade then and there, removing his weight from the door and letting Shaw in before locking the door behind him.


	4. Superstition (T)

“Is there any particular _reason_ you’ve been following me all day?” Shaw eventually asks, finally at his limit with dealing with the captain pacing around in his peripheral vision for the better part of the afternoon. Thankfully, at least, he had refrained from openly approaching Shaw until he had finally left his post to eat a light lunch alone in a mostly secluded area that overlooked the Proudmoore Academy. Maybe he would have been better off skipping lunch altogether.

“Well,” Flynn starts, not even bothering to deny that he had been following him around, “I’m sailing out to Stormwind tomorrow.”

The reports had crossed Shaw’s desk last week about the small crew that was to accompany lady Taelia Fordragon to Stormwind. He had private suspicions that the trip had something to do with her father. “I’m aware.”

“It’s far, you know.” Flynn bites his lip nervously which confuses Shaw more than anything else.

“I’ve been told that this is the type of thing you do for a living.” Shaw rises to a stand and wipes the dust off the front of his leathers with gloved palms, fully intending to leave. “Having second thoughts?”

The captain ignores his question entirely, instead opting to lean a forearm on the wall beside him and effectively blocking his exit. “They say it’s bad luck to sail so far without a kiss.”

Shaw bristles as he moves to shoulder past him. “Then I suppose you’ll be having wretched luck.”

“Come on, please? I wouldn’t normally ask something like this of you, but,” he bites at his lip again and Shaw curses himself for letting his eyes catch on the movement. “Taelia is my best friend. I don’t want anything to go wrong with her on board.”

Stupidly, Shaw considers it. He’s had a long week. Fairwind doesn’t shift the position he’s adopted hovering beside him in a far-too familiar distance, silent for once as he watches Shaw’s face. Belatedly, Shaw realizes that he probably should have moved away. Instead, he asks, “You’ll leave me alone after?”

Fairwind nods a little too eagerly, brows raised in undisguised hope and wisely, he doesn’t say anything else. Shaw resists the urge to wet his dry lips and rationalizes that if Fairwind wants to kiss his wind-chapped lips he’s not going to make it any easier for him.

Captain Fairwind leans over into his personal space and Shaw is struck by the sheer amount of heat emanating off of the man’s form. There’s the barest brush of lips and tickle of scraggly goatee and just as soon as it begins it’s already over. When Shaw opens his eyes again (he doesn’t know when or why he had closed them) Flynn is looking at him with one of the widest grins he’s ever seen the other man sporting. His surprise at Flynn’s discretion must read on his face because Flynn asks, “Were you expecting more?”

His traitorous skin chooses that particular moment to flush. Fairwind, bastard as he is, doesn’t pretend not to notice.

Leaning back in at millimetre increments at a time, he pitches his voice lower. “Hey, you know what they say is even luckier?”

“Don’t push it,” Shaw warns with a growl. Flynn laughs, heedless of any danger he’s putting himself in and then he’s kissing him again with reckless abandon. Frustratingly, Shaw finds himself kissing back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that so many of these have ended up being very tame. I need to fix that. I MIGHT have trouble getting the rest out on time during the second half of the week bc of work so I’m trying to be ahead of schedule now to make up for it


	5. Stealth (T)

Flynn holds his breath for as long as he can until his lungs begin to ache and only then does he permit himself to take shallow breaths, stance rigid as he takes in the scene playing out before him. He knows that if he makes a single wrong move it will likely cost his life and quite frankly, he’s not completely done with said life. He’s too young and handsome to kick the bucket so soon.

Thorns and twigs prod at him from the half-crouched position he had immediately taken behind a bush at the first smell of danger and while he commends himself for acting as fast as he had, he rather regrets his decision. He could have turned and ran back the way he came from but it’s far too late for any of that now. Until the threat is neutralized there’s nothing he can do but wait in his self-made prickly prison. All he had wanted was a _nice bath_. 

The threat in question is turned away from him, thankfully, as he sluices water over his short copper hair that drips down the curve of his spine. Hardly thirty feet away in the river stands Spymaster Shaw who is seemingly unaware of the additional presence that’s joined him and if Flynn wants to avoid getting sent to the brig or whatever punishment Shaw might have for him if he were to be caught, he’d like to keep it that way. 

It was worth noting that he was completely naked. He hadn’t originally been aware of this fact until the other man had risen from the water to get to his feet and it took everything in Flynn’s power to not choke on his own spit as the water settled around Shaw’s mid-thigh, putting his ass on clear display. It painted a beautiful picture if Flynn was being honest and if he were the artistic type he might even make an oil painting of the way the clear surface of the river reflected the mid-morning light on his firm pale ass with rivulets of water trailing down his skin but as it was, Flynn’s artistic ability was limited to scrawling out sea charts. The best thing he can really do in this situation is to save the image to his memory. It’s important, after all. 

Shaw rolled his shoulders before bringing his elbows up above his head, reaching a forearm down towards the opposite shoulder blade and alternating arms every fifteen seconds or so in a stretch that made the muscles in his back flex brilliantly. Somehow, this affects Flynn more than seeing his bare ass does and he quietly reprimands the troublesome dick that’s started to take interest in his trousers before remembering he’s supposed to be _quiet_ , Tide’s sake. It’s bad enough that he’s spying on the supposed master of spies but it’s much, much worse to do so with a boner. 

“If you were looking to work for SI:7 I would highly recommend reconsidering,” Shaw says evenly, not even bothering to turn and face him. 

His blood runs cold in his veins as he briefly contemplates staying where he is without making his presence known but the jig, he realizes, is up. He may as well try to save face while he can. He pushes off his knees onto his feet, feigning an exaggerated yawn and stretching his arms out above his head. “Now that was a nice nap. Oh, Spymaster! How long have you been here?” 

“Like I said, Captain, I strongly suggest that you keep to the seas.” He turns around, arms crossed across his chest as he arches a judgmental brow at him. He makes no effort to cover his more sensitive areas and Flynn’s gaze instinctually dips below his impressive abdominal muscles to his flaccid dick and… buggering hells, he’s cut. What was _wrong_ with these mainlanders? It doesn’t really matter to him either way and it definitely doesn’t matter now when Shaw fixes him with a markedly unamused glare. “Was there any specific reason why you were ogling me?” 

“No!” Flynn answers quickly in what he hopes is reassurance. When he realizes it isn’t actually reassuring at all, he elaborates. “What I meant is that it wasn’t on purpose. I just wanted to take a quick dip in the river but then you were here and well,” He shrugs his shoulders uselessly. “I panicked.” 

Shaw answers with an ambiguous hum and Flynn relaxes his shoulders the slightest amount. The other man hasn’t lunged at him with a dagger just yet like he feared he might, so he counts himself rather lucky. He doesn’t really know how to proceed, unsure of the protocols involved when being exposed as a peeping tom until Shaw saves him the trouble. 

Shaw extends his arms outward, gesturing at the wide expanse of the river. “There’s more than enough room for the two of us, Captain.” At Flynn’s disbelieving hesitance, a corner of his sodden moustache quirks upwards ever so slightly in something that resembles a grin. “I should mention that this _is_ a timed offer.” 

Flynn practically trips over himself in his haste to remove his clothes, tossing them in a pile he’ll figure out later and diving into the river with a splash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> where does this take place? I don't know!


	6. Scars (M)

Post-fuck, sweaty and worn out, Shaw usually wants nothing more to do than wash off and fall into the type of dreamless sleep he can only achieve through pure exhaustion. With previous bed partners (not that there were many) this was usually observed without him having to explicitly ask for it. Flynn Fairwind, however, seemed to only ever be fueled by sex and treated their post-coital moments as energized pillow talk sessions that Shaw usually couldn’t be bothered to keep up with. Really, it was his own fault for thinking that indulging the captain would do anything to temper his eccentric nature or make him more respectable.

Of course, pretend as he might, that’s exactly what he likes about him. It’s terribly inconvenient. It would be hellish for him to admit it out loud so he never does.

“Where’d this sucker come from?” Flynn asks him on one such evening, feeling around the warped skin above Shaw’s right hip. His sweat-damp hair tumbles down around his shoulders and in the light provided by the numerous oil lamps in the inn’s room he is practically glowing. Shaw probably should have snuffed one of the lamps out before they had gotten into bed as he’s not usually interested in being so _visible_ after he’s been sated but, well. It wasn’t really on his list of priorities once he’d gotten Flynn through the door and slammed it back to rattle on its hinges.

He’s being asked a question, he realizes. Light, he’s tired. Flynn’s fingers pet at the old mottled scar on his hip as he patiently waits for an answer, watching Shaw’s face apprehensively as if he’s trying to discern whether or not he’s accidentally asked for information above his pay grade. The scar in question is neutral enough territory that Shaw decides there’s no harm in answering.

“A failed assassination attempt by pirates, actually,” He says with a tired almost-smile. “Might have even been before you were born.”

“Pirates assassinating a _baby?_ I’ve heard of all kinds of things, mate, but that one seems a bit out there.” Flynn laughs heartily as he anticipates Shaw’s jab to his side before it happens, easily catching his wrist with his hand. “You can’t be more than a year older than me, right?”

“That joke wasn’t funny the first time you told it and it’s not funny now,” He huffs, though he makes no move to free his hand from Flynn’s grasp. Flynn shifts his hand down to interlock his fingers with Shaw’s own, bringing it up to his lips with a light brush of lips along his knuckles in a move that should be groan-worthy at best but still sends a spark through Shaw’s nerves without his approval. Flynn’s eyes are bright with amusement and fondness that Shaw doesn’t know how to react to and he fixes him instead with a look of exasperation that he doesn’t completely feel.

“And this one?” Flynn asks, running his thumb along Shaw’s index finger and over the raised jagged skin just above his knuckle. “Seems a bit strange to get stabbed there. More pirates?”

Shaw breathes out, his good mood evaporating with every bit of air being expelled from his lungs. He can sense Flynn’s frown as he shifts his gaze to the scar in question but it’s secondary to the memories being dredged up during that particular moment. “Memories of my involuntary stay at Suramar are everywhere, it seems.”

Flynn begins an apology that Shaw waves off halfway through. “I hate that those bastards ever touched you,” He growls instead with a fierce protectiveness that Shaw doesn’t know what to do with. If he felt like it, he might one day imagine what it would have been like if he had known Flynn back then. He didn’t, though, so he opted not to fret on it.

“I did it to myself,” he admits, surprising himself perhaps even more than it seems to surprise Flynn. “I had a plan for it back then but when I look back on it, its faults are obvious.”

Time slipped through his fingers like sand while he was imprisoned in Felsoul Hold and after an unspecified amount of it had passed, he began to feel more and more like the caged animal that he was. Aided by Detheroc’s frequent (or infrequent) visits and his tales of how he had regaled the king with nonsense intel, he began to predictably lose his mind. He was fed just enough to keep him from withering away to a husk which Shaw had deduced at the time meant that they needed him alive. Following this logic, he came to the conclusion that if he had an infected wound they wouldn’t leave it to necrotize. He was still useful in some way which meant he still had the ability to turn this around to his favor if he simply used the resourcefulness he had often prided himself on.

Flexing his fingers in Flynn’s in the current day, He realizes he wants to leave this memory back where it belongs in the recesses of his mind and not recall how it had felt tearing chunks of skin from the digit with his sharp incisors in an attempt to somehow free himself. It hadn’t worked, obviously, and all it left him with was an ugly reminder and the recollection of how that much blood had tasted in his mouth and dribbled down into his then-scraggly beard.

An awkward amount of time passes between them in complete silence until Shaw sighs agitatedly. “Where’d you get this scar, then?” He asks instead as a lame attempt at a change of subject, freeing his hand from Flynn’s and tapping along scarred skin beneath the man’s left pectoral. Flynn, kind as he is, gets the hint and goes along with it easily.

“Oh, that? I hardly even remember it’s there. I can’t usually see it past—“ he cups each of his pecs for emphasis, “—these.” He waits for Shaw to roll his eyes before he continues. “I had a bit of a fistfight with a Saurolisk a few years back for a bet.”

“Saurolisks don’t have fists.”

“I know! That’s why I won the bet fair and square. Sharp claws, though.” He smiles at Shaw with his usual bravado and then Shaw suddenly feels himself getting caught up in the sight of it, in the way the lamplight sets his curves and edges alight and in the way Flynn brings him such a sense of calm and peace that he’s not known for many a year. He cups the man’s face in his hands and presses their lips together in a firm but shallow kiss, letting his eyelids droop closed as he drinks in the soft sigh Flynn breathes out against his mouth.

Flynn changes the nature of the kiss after he’s had enough of the soft pecks they lazily exchanged and leans over Shaw, kissing him back into the pillows and pressing a tongue into his mouth. It’s not been quite enough time for Shaw to get his second wind going but from what he can feel pressing against his thigh, the same can’t be said for Flynn. Oh, to be young again.

“I’ve got another scar you wouldn’t believe,” Flynn says against his lips as he shifts his weight onto a forearm.

Shaw offers him an inquisitive sound as Flynn nips at his lower lip which turns into a gasp when Flynn circles a fist around his cock.

“You see, it’s right near my arsehole. There’s usually only one thing that makes it feel better.”

Shaw barely resists the urge to roll his eyes again. “I don’t know why I bother with you sometimes. You’re crass, you’re—”

“Handsome, dashing, and charming. I know, mate. I’ve heard it all before.” Flynn winks down at him before kissing him again and pinning Shaw’s hand up beside his head, gently lacing their fingers together once more and stroking his index finger along Shaw’s gnarled one. Shaw holds him down by the nape of his neck, not wanting to look at how Flynn probably wants to be looking at him right now and kisses back ferociously until Flynn pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together. “What do you say? Think you’ll help a guy out?”

Try as he might, he can’t hide the smile that threatens to overtake him. “Well, since you asked.”


	7. Storm (M)

Flynn curses loudly as he wrestles with the rigging of the sails at the stern of the vessel, fighting against high speed winds and a seemingly constant barrage of waves that wouldn’t hesitate to pull him overboard if he hadn’t tethered himself to the mast with a rope. The storm had come on so suddenly that he and his crew hadn’t had the foresight to switch out to the storm sails (stupid, _stupid_ ) and from the looks of it, they might all very well pay the price for it. His first mate had taken the wheel as soon as the storm began to rear its ugly head and even as the rain fell against them in sheets he held them as steady as he could through the waves, sailing through them at an angle to have as minimal an amount of rolling as they could possibly have.

Hands joined his own along the rigging of the sails to add strength alongside Flynn’s grasp and oh right, Shaw was here too.

“I was hoping you might show up,” Flynn shouted over the wind with a wild grin. “Could you imagine what an awful shame it would be if this was our last night together?”

“Knowing my luck, it wouldn’t be.” Shaw shouts in turn with his gaze firmly focused on the ropes above their heads as they pull the rigging in tandem and Flynn doesn’t know whether he’s implying that he has good luck or bad luck. In the hurricane he looks like a wet rat, hair flat against his skull with how thoroughly soaked to the bone he is and uniform clinging to his surprisingly broad form suggestively enough that if Flynn had half a moment to spare he might even stare at him for a while.

Once they get the sails at the stern properly stowed, they move onto the next set making their way towards the prow. Flynn’s crew works alongside them at every juncture, securing cargo and repairing any breaks caused by the waves at breakneck speeds. Flynn was lucky that he and his crew were seasoned enough to know how to handle a hurricane but the additional members of the 7th Legion that had joined him for this voyage were not so lucky. Some of them stayed above decks to do what they could to help but the rest of them were perhaps wisely holing up belowdecks. Shaw, of course, wasn’t one of them.

It was something he might admire him for if he wasn’t constantly worried about the next wave whisking him off into the tides. A selfish part of him, maybe, wishes Shaw had stayed belowdecks and out of harm's way even though the man could clearly take care of himself. The wind howls around them and sends Shaw staggering sideways into his chest and Flynn catches him with an arm he takes from the rigging, holding him steady as Shaw orients himself. Fully accepting the potential risks of the position they’re currently in, Flynn shouts again.

“You know, it’d be a right shame if this was our last night on Azeroth because I never got a chance to do this.”

“Do what?” Shaw asks and Tides bless him for going with the most predictable answer that he could have chosen.

He twists his hand in the rigging to hold it tight and keep it from getting away from him and with his other arm he pulls Shaw in close, mashing their mouths together in what he intends to be a heated kiss.

Their teeth clack together and Shaw makes an immediate sound of protest, pounding his flattened palms against Flynn’s chest and pulling away with a comically incredulous expression. Any venom he tries to infuse the look with is significantly undermined by the blotchy flush that spreads across his cheeks.

“This is _hardly_ the place or time for you to confess your infatuation with me, Captain Fairwind!” 

“If not now, then when?” Flynn shouts, half teasing and half sincere as he backs off of Shaw all the same and brings his other hand back up to the rigging to furl the sails. It’s almost there. “We could meet up in the afterlife if you’d like!”

Shaw sputters incompressible curses as he finally turns his attention back to the ropes and pulls them alongside Flynn. “That won’t be possible because we’re not going to die here.” Shaw yells. “ _When_ we survive this, _I'll_ find _you._ ”

“That doesn’t sound like a promise you intend to keep,” Flynn counters easily in an attempt to cover up the non-hurricane related apprehension that’s bubbled up inside him. Shaw throws him an inscrutable look as they successfully furl the sails and says nothing else as he runs across the deck towards the 7th Legion operative struggling with a latch to tie down the cargo. Flynn watches him go for a moment before he remembers what he’s doing and makes his way back to his first mate at the wheel.

-

When they make port the next day Shaw stays true to his word and seeks him out in his captain’s quarters that very morning and fucks him into the bed until Flynn is trembling beneath him, gasping and shuddering with each strong thrust and when Shaw claims his mouth in fruitless attempt to shut him up, Flynn swears he can still taste seawater on the tip of his tongue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually surprised I was able to do every prompt! wow! rock on my fairshaw pals!


End file.
